Stray

  9.

  Walls

  “You won’t find better steaks anywhere in Powelton,” the butcher promised. He was a fine advertisement for his product, smiling widely, fleshy as the enormous slabs of bright red meat on his table. His massive arm jiggled as he swatted at a wayward fly. Nobody in her right mind would trust a gaunt butcher.

  “The butcher on the last level said something just like that, didn’t he, Emery?” Lydia had intended to say so more playfully but couldn’t summon the effort. Her resulting tone probably suggested ennui.

  Emery apparently failed to notice. He put a hand to his chin, smiling. “I’m nearly certain he did,” he said, watching for the butcher’s reaction. Emery’s horrid deadpan made him useless at bartering. Lydia had tried to convince him to let her do the talking in the market; he rarely listened. “And we’ve bought from Giovanni for months now; I can’t imagine a much better steak than his.”

  “That old crow?” the butcher bellowed. “I wouldn’t buy my meat from such a lean man.” Giovanni couldn’t weigh much more than two hundred pounds. “But I’ll make you a deal, young sir. How much do you pay old Gio per pound?”

  “Eight rai,” Lydia cut in before Emery could speak. His unwillingness to bend the truth also hurt his technique.

  The butcher’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally, then his act was back on. “See, there’s the first sign!” he declared. “You get what you pay for, and it’s shoddy meat if he can afford to sell for less than eleven. But just to make my case, I’ll make you a special one-time offer, right here, right now. Seven rai a pound, today only. Once you’re a believer, you tell everyone Little Bruno cuts the best cow in Rittenhouse.”

  “You have a lot of faith in your product,” Lydia said. “Six, and we’ll pay full price when we come running back. We buy a lot, so if you make us believers, it’ll work out for you in the long run.”

  “Oh, you youth would rob me, miss.” Little Bruno put a hammy hand to his forehead. “Six, then, today only.”

  Emery was still grinning like an idiot. “We’ll take three pounds.”

  “Now, remember,” the butcher said as he weighed out the purchase. “This isn’t the processed garbage you’re buying from that other coot, and real meat spoils fast.”

  “I entertain a lot,” Emery said. “I’m sure we’ll get through it.” He retrieved a small purse from his coat pocket and counted out eighteen rai for the butcher. Little Bruno extended his ample right arm, bloodied to the elbow; Emery politely declined to shake it. He put the meat in the cart.

  “You don’t need to lie to him,” Emery said as they made their way down the aisle. “It’s not like I can’t afford to pay a bit extra.”

  “You never let me push the cart or really do anything, so I figure I have to earn my keep somehow. I’m honestly not sure why you even bring me on these outings.” She tried not to sound too annoyed.

  “Moral support,” Emery offered. “You know how overwhelmed I get coming here.”

  It wasn’t hard to understand why; it was an overwhelming place. Powelton Market was the largest structure in Rittenhouse, a nine-level behemoth that occupied two city blocks. The levels were arranged in a spiral rather than stacked flat; each floor was a gentle ramp that sloped gradually into the next, so all nine levels could be traversed without the use of stairs or an elevator. The design had been used in pre-extinction garages for parking automobiles, and in its first iteration Powelton had been built from the remnants of one such garage. Its expansion compounded the confusion, adding concentric rings around the original design to expand each level dramatically. The innermost ring of levels housed food vendors and restaurants. Other sections of the market sold clothing, furniture, every imaginable good—Powelton even held the showroom for Adler Automobiles on its ground floor. At the core of the structure was a glass-roofed courtyard, and the food vendors’ section looked inward upon it. There was a large space for dining at the floor of the courtyard, as well as small balconies jutting inward from each level of the mall. Lydia gazed outside for a while, wondering again whether she should try to move to a sunlit apartment.

  They walked in silence for a while, but while she was inspecting some onions, Emery interrupted her train of thought. “So you were saying the other day that you wanted to talk to me.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” she quickly replied. “You were talking to me, and I said we’d continue the conversation later.”

  Emery laughed. “Well, then, that. What was it we were saying? I can barely recall.”

  “Neither can I.” She could, quite clearly, but the prospect of actually having the conversation right now withered the desire. He was the one who should have something to say, anyway. He was the one who should apologize.

  The shopping cart began to drift away from Emery; he squeezed the handbrake. He always insisted on starting at the top level of the market and working his way down. It saved the effort of pushing the cart uphill as it gained weight, but it was liable to drift away whenever he became distracted.

  He was the one who should apologize. She had wanted him since first coming to Rittenhouse, when he had rescued her from her exile. But Emery had insisted it wasn’t prudent, whatever the hell that meant, and had refused to involve himself with Lydia while she lived at the estate. Only later, when she had settled into the prospect of mediocrity with Mikul, did Emery admit to himself and to Lydia that he wanted her.

  “Are we out of any other vegetables?” he asked.

  And then, when they were stranded outside last autumn, faced with the threat of death, Emery had kissed her, and Lydia had been ready to set aside Mikul—and with him the faintest prospect of an ordinary life. She would have loved him in secret, for as long as she had to. But they returned Rittenhouse to find that Dr. Hanssen had tricked them, that there wasn’t enough medicine to save Timothy—and since Timothy’s death, Emery had shut out everyone, especially her.

  “Are you alright?”

  Damn. She was crying. Not a lot, but apparently enough for him to notice. Parking the cart firmly against the wall, Emery seized her arm and led her onto the nearest balcony. There were four two-top tables, all unclaimed; they took a seat at one.

  “What’s wrong?” Emery was trying to get her to look at him. Lydia stared at the table.

  “It’s just—I don’t know.”

  “Is everything okay with you and Mikul?”

  “Yeah.” As okay as it ever was. “I’m sorry, it’s nothing, just stress. Money is tight…” She was blabbering.

  “You’re upset about money?” He sounded relieved. “All you have to do is ask; I’m sure I can afford to give you a raise.”

  She nodded. At least he’d taken the bait. “Thanks.”

  “We’ll talk about it when we get back home and work something out.” He made as if to stand but caught her gaze and added, “You do know you can talk to me about anything, right? I just want to be sure you know that.”

  “Of course.” He said it like he honestly believed it, like he wasn’t aware how far from the mark he was. She nodded. “Of course.”

  –

  Juliet came early the night of Emery’s birthday party, and he was glad for her presence. Honestly, though he had perfectly good reasons to be afraid—he knew the cost if the estate’s other residents were discovered—this dread unexpectedly met with a more fundamental anxiety. Emery was uncomfortable around his classmates, and though he usually dismissed this as being due to his secrets, the fact was that he had been uncomfortable around his classmates back in Ambler as well, before he had so much to hide. “Thanks for coming,” he greeted her at the door.

  “No need to thank me, dude.” She removed her coat to reveal a deep green cotton dress. “I, for one, am gonna enjoy myself tonight. Are you ready for our first outing as a happy couple?”

  He laughed. “Oh, you’re going to have fun with this, aren’t you? I’m cool with it just as long as you’re sure Sander is alright.”

  “Yeah, he’s cool with it. It?
??s the best thing we can do, considering the options.”

  “Cool. Well, I guess I should go lock the kids down.”

  The strays were already in the basement when Emery came down the stairs. Lydia had brought some baklava (she had not stayed long), and Emery had supplied board games for all of them and books for Oliver, the only one interested in leisure reading. But Oliver was more interested in dissent at the moment. “This is total bull. Next time you ask us to build a tiny box in the wall, let us know beforehand if your plan is to cram us into it.”

  Emery sighed; they’d been over this a few times already. “I think you’re smart enough to have known already that the point of a hiding place is to hide in it.”

  “For emergencies, not for parties.”

  “Okay, well, consider my appearing somewhat normal to my peers an emergency as it pertains to your safety. If you can’t take my word for it, ask Juliet; it was her idea anyhow.”

  Oliver sighed and sluggishly trod toward the open door to the hiding place. It was a brilliant design, befitting of Michael Garis: the surface of the wall was irregular stone, and the door parted along the uneven seam created by the mortar. Moreover, the switch that operated it was upstairs on the main floor.

  “Do you guys need anything else?” he asked the others as they reluctantly rose from the studio’s scattered furniture.

  “No,” replied Geneva, who had resorted to pouting. She and Carrot weren’t fighting for once, at least. And Salvador had said nary a word of complaint. He and Miren were the last to enter the hiding place; she offered Emery a smile as she stepped inside. Oliver had already taken his place on one of the top bunks, feet dangling from the side. “I’ll see you guys soon,” Emery said.

  He gave Juliet a nod upon emerging from the basement, and she reached into the black vase where the switch for the secret door was hidden. They’d found it only after unexpectedly smashing their way into the room. Emery could hear the stones scrape as they slid back into place. “Okay,” Emery said, “now we party. I invited a dealer named Deion who I met behind the school, where you told me to look for people. I bought a bunch of poppy off him; he said it was from a place called Redemption. It sounded to me like there might be some connection to this Jacob’s Ladder place or thing, whatever it is, but he wouldn’t say any more. If he comes, I’d like to see what else we can get out of him.”

  Juliet sighed. “You’re not planning to have even a little fun tonight, are you?”

  “Honestly, Juliet, if I get through tonight without having a damn heart attack, that’s more fun than I’m planning on having.”

  They had asked the guests to arrive around eight—that is, Juliet had asked them; Emery had few friends to invite besides her. Aside from Sander and his sisters, Emery feared he might not even know many in attendance. But as eight o’clock came and went, they found themselves sitting alone at the small kitchen table. “So if nobody shows up,” Emery ventured hopefully, “I get out of this, right?”

  Juliet laughed. “It’s a house party, man. No one ever arrives on time. People will be here by nine or nine thirty, just watch.”

  Nine o’clock came and went. They had finished a bottle of cabernet between the two of them (Juliet preferred reds, and as her new “boyfriend,” Emery respected her preference). “So,” he said, trying to sound casual, “I’ve been thinking of dropping of school.”

  “Awesome,” she replied.

  “Really?”

  “Awesomely moronic.” That was more the response he was expecting.

  “Dr. Mari, my therapist, said I’m on academic probation. If I stop seeing her, the collegio will expel me. And I can barely keep up with my classes anyhow, with working on the tunnel and all.”

  “Yeah, well, dropping out is a great solution if you’re looking for even more reasons to get investigated. Honestly, Emery, for someone with a trap door in his basement, you’re really bad at this stealth stuff.” She rolled her eyes, the way she did when she thought he was being terribly childish; he dropped the subject.

  Finally, the doorbell rang. Emery had left the outer gate ajar so the invitees could come directly to the front door, which he presently opened to find Carla Engal standing on the stoop with snow in her golden hair. “Welcome!” he greeted Dr. Hanssen’s niece, trying to forget that neither of them had ever much liked the other. “Let me take your coat. We’re off to a late start; you’re actually the first to arrive besides Juliet.”

  “Oh,” she replied, shivering as she surrendered her fur-lined white coat. “I was expecting Sander and Chelsea to be here already.”

  “I’m sure they will be soon.” He sincerely hoped so. “We’re this way, in the kitchen. Would you like some wine?”

  “White, if you don’t mind.”

  He uncorked the bottle and poured some for himself as well. “So,” Carla said by way of conversation as she took a seat at the table, “you two are finally together.”

  “Yeah,” Juliet replied, taking Emery’s hand as he found his seat. “I guess you could say things have been leading up to it for a while; we just finally decided to make it official.” She blushed and put her head on his shoulder; she was apparently quite good at this.

  “Well, that’s good.” Carla giggled. Emery had never heard her giggle at school. “It certainly took you long enough. People were starting to think Emery was nailing that squatter housemaid.”

  He was taken aback. “Squatter?”

  “You know, that Farsi girl you always have over here. That’s how the Farsi underclass survives, living off the generosity of the other circles’ wealthy. It’s how they got in to Rittenhouse in the first place, just like the maestro said in our lesson the other day. They were just kind of sitting on the land, waiting for someone else to do something of value with it. A couple of their families have made contributions, sure—I don’t know where we’d be without the hospital—but on the whole, their circle doesn’t even take care of its own. Working-class Vorteil work on the Vorteil production lines; poor Farsi work… well, here.”

  “Oh.” He cleared his throat. “No, Lydia and I aren’t involved.”

  The doorbell mercifully chose that moment to ring again.

  “Amir!” Emery greeted his shy Farsi classmate. “We were just discussing inter-circle politics while we wait for the rest of our guests to show. Come on in, let me get you something…”

  The guests came more quickly after that. Sander arrived with apologies for his delay; Chelsea, he said, would be a while longer in coming. There was Ben Obi, the son of the Chukwu circle’s junior Justice of the Peace, and several other important-looking students whom Emery knew in passing from school. It was an affluent group; not every family had the rai or the social currency to gain admission for their children into the collegio. Perhaps it was good that Lydia hadn’t come: many here might view her as inferior, as Carla did. Emery was content to pour his guests’ drinks himself; it let him appear sociable without socializing much.

  Every so often, he was sure he heard the faintest sound from the hiding place.

  At some point Juliet wrapped an arm around his neck, wrestled a drink into his hand, and pulled him to the living room, the one in which he seldom set foot. Juliet had brought up the phonograph from downstairs; it was playing some percussion-heavy piece by a Chukwu club band. The room was filled to overflowing; perhaps thirty people crowded the floor or lounged on the vintage furniture, all dressed in flashy clothing. Emery was surprised anyone had bothered to dress up for the occasion; he was only wearing a long-sleeved cotton shirt and black jeans, all paint-stained. He recalled Green’s muddy boots defacing this same room and couldn’t help but laugh. “Glad to see you’re finally getting into the spirit,” Juliet said.

  She led him to where Sander and Carla were standing, along with a Roccetti boy Emery didn’t recognize. “This is Anthony Pavoni, grandson of the banker.” Pavoni Trust was the Roccetti circle’s proprietary bank. “And this,” Juliet continued, “is Emery Scott Esposti, my new beau.”


  “Thanks for coming!” Emery greeted him, extending a hand.

  “Happy birthday! How’s it feel being twenty?” the heavyset young man replied. He had red cheeks and an expression that Emery thought suggested easy laughter, and this suspicion was quickly confirmed: “This party’ll go down in history as the day the gossips lost their favorite conversation subject, eh, miss Engal?” He nudged her and roared as her cheeks turn redder than his.

  “I don’t know,” Carla replied primly, “you’d have to ask a gossip.”

  “Oh,” Anthony replied, “that’s rich! I kid you not, Emery, this one was half-convinced you had bodies in the basement. Actual stiffs!”

  If it was at Carla’s expense, Emery could play along. “Well,” he said with a little smile, “you haven’t seen the basement just yet.”

  Sander laughed at that; Carla opted to change the subject. “So! Now that you two are an item, I guess the only real question is when my brother here is finally going to couple up.”

  Juliet’s hand brushed Emery’s, which was resting on her hip. Sander smiled for a moment too long and tugged at the collar of his sky-blue shirt. “But what about you, Sis?”

  “I’m the youngest by a year,” she said dismissively, “so you and Chelsea are ahead of me in line.”

  “What Carla means is she has her eye on someone, but she’s scared to make a move.” Sander motioned across the room toward a tall Vorteil guy. His blonde hair was shoulder-length, unusual for males in their circle, and he kept a sharp goatee. He looked like some young king from a fairytale.

  “Who’s that?” Emery asked as Carla swatted her brother’s arm.

  “You don’t know?” Carla asked incredulously.

  “Vince Esser,” Juliet said, “Councilwoman Nina Esser’s second son.” Emery knew that name: Nina Esser was a celebrity among the Vorteil, the first woman to hold office in any circle.

  Anthony burst into laughter again. “A little above your social stratum, don’t you think, miss Engal?”

  Carla sighed. “If you all are just going to tease me, I’m going to go find better company.” She strode off, indignant.

  “Did we offend her?” Juliet asked quickly.

  Sander shrugged. “She’ll be fine. She was probably just looking for an excuse to break away and go talk awkwardly to Vince.”

  “Speaking of breaking away,” Juliet whispered. Emery followed her glance to the corner of the room, where, looking uncomfortable and positively suspicious, was Deion.

  “Want me to come with you?”

  “No, you’re awful at stealth, remember?” To Sander she smiled and said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Emery lowered his hand from her waist, and Juliet disappeared into the crowd.

  Sander raised his eyebrows. “What was that?”

  “Just a new friend. She’s running to pour him a drink and make sure he feels welcome.”

  “That’s the kind of friend you want to make feel welcome!” Apparently Anthony was acquainted with the dealer. “Hell, I didn’t know this was that kind of party.” He didn’t sound at all disappointed.

  “What kind of party?” Sander asked.

  That was not a conversation Emery was prepared to have. “Hey, Sander,” he said before Anthony could speak. “Come let me get you another drink. There’s something I wanted to ask you about.”

  “Oh, don’t mind me,” Anthony boomed, “I’m just fine out here.” He turned and made his way after Juliet, toward Deion; Sander shot one last glance at the dealer but followed Emery.

  Thankfully, there was no one else in the kitchen; Emery offered Sander a seat and uncorked the night’s dozenth bottle. He felt the warmth of the wine he’d consumed. “So,” he asked Sander as he filled his class, “how are you?”

  “Great,” Sander replied. “It’s been a fun night so far.”

  Emery sat down across the table from him. “I mean, how are you with me and Juliet? I want to make sure you’re okay with it.”

  He shrugged. “Alright. I mean, it’s not what I would want to happen, if I had a choice. But I don’t really have one, none of us do. It’s just a crap thing about our society that we’ll have to find ways to live with until we can find a way to change it. For now, we need to cover our asses, and this is a way to do that.”

  Emery nodded, relieved. “I just don’t want you to feel threatened or anything.”

  Sander tilted his wine glass back, holding the stem between two long fingers, and drained it. “If you two wanted to be together, you could—hell, it would be a lot easier than what we’re doing. If seeing you two together bothers me at all, it has nothing to do with feeling threatened, it’s just… I wish me and her were able to do that, you know? It’s hard.” He waved the glass in idle spirals. “So what was Anthony saying about that Chukwu kid, about not knowing it was ‘that kind of party’?”

  “Oh. Well, I guess Deion just isn’t as well-off as this crowd.” It wasn’t the true answer to Sander’s question, but it was a truth. “Suffice to say I’m glad my housekeeper, Lydia, isn’t here tonight.”

  Sander’s eyes widened. “Oh, damn. Did Carla say something to you?” Apparently, his sister’s opinions weren’t unknown to him. “I’m sorry, she’s a bit—”

  “A bit of a bigot, yeah.” It wasn’t until Sander stopped talking that Emery realized he’d said it out loud. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s true. People like my sister and my uncle—really intelligent people, great people in a lot of ways—but still, they’re the people fighting progress, the people we have to either convince or outnumber if things are ever going to get better.”

  Emery had other reasons to believe Sander’s uncle was far from great, but he nodded. “I hope we can make it better. I really do.”

  They sat in silence for a moment; then Sander rose from his seat. “Well, I’m going to go find my girlfriend and fake a platonic friendship. Thanks for talking to me, man. And thanks for keeping my secret.”

  “Sure. I can only assume you’d do the same for me, if the situation was reversed.” Emery noticed Sander’s strange little smile at that and wondered what secrets he already knew, or guessed. “And be careful, but… Well, if you need a break from faking, Juliet knows her way around the house.” Sander smiled again, nodded, and stepped out. Emery took a moment and a deep breath. Then he rose to rejoin his party.

  He was offered birthday wishes by several guests, many of whom he did not know. He wandered through the room, dazed by the press of bodies, attempting to pick up threads of a dozen conversations about which Locust Point nightclub was superior, or about the fashion designer Nicchi’s winter product line, or about who was dating whom. At one point a Roccetti girl he didn’t know attempted to engage Anthony on the coming election, but the banker’s grandson raised his drink and boomed, “I get enough of politics when I’m sober!”

  Amir Bhatt had retreated to a corner, overwhelmed; Emery knew precisely how he felt. But this was his house, and at least he had the luxury of a retreat. “You want to step downstairs with me?” Emery offered, but the timid boy shook his head. Oh, well, at least he had given him the option. A headache was coming on, so Emery made the retreat by himself. Closing the door behind him, he descended the stairs; when he reached the bottom he paused for a minute to rub his temples.

  “So. I guess this is where you keep the bodies.”

  The onset of panic was immediate. His eyes snapped open to find Carla Engal at the far end of the basement, her hand holding open the door of Emery’s weapon closet. His heart fairly bruised his ribcage. How the hell had she gotten that door unlocked? Unless—no, it was he who’d unlocked it, last time he was retrieving the revolver. He was taken aback by his own sloppiness. He had to say something. “Pretty, aren’t they?” Well, that might not have been the best thing to say.

  “How did you get these?” she asked as he quickly crossed the studio. Doubtless the objects of her question with the two Thorsen bolt-action rifles standing upright on their rac
k. One had been there since Emery moved into the house, and another one unearthed when he had discovered the hiding place. “Ordinary citizens can’t buy these.” He tensed and upped his pace.

  “My second cousin, who owned this house, was a ship captain,” he reminded her; he was sure she knew already. “They’ve been here collecting dust since before I moved in.”

  Carla leaned forward unsteadily. Emery had reached her. He raised a ready hand, thinking she meant to seize the rifle, but she merely stroked the polished wood and then lifted her finger. “They don’t look very dusty.” And of course they weren’t: Oliver maintained them almost obsessively.

  She squinted sluggishly, then nearly lost her balance. Emery realized she was very drunk. Good: he could contain this. He took her by the arm, closing and locking the door with his free hand. “Carla, let’s go sit down.” Deep breaths. He was beginning to calm down until he glimpsed the far wall and recalled the five refugees hidden just behind it. “Actually, why don’t we go back up to the party?”

  “In about five minutes.” She fell onto the sagging couch, doubtless wrinkling her fine dress. “Wine induces a marvelous lethargy, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Emery tried to peel his eyes off the hidden door. He positioned himself in a chair to Carla’s opposite side, so she would have no reason to face the stone wall. “You know, some people would be offended to find a houseguest digging through their family heirlooms.”

  “I know. It’s only, well, you must admit you’re quite strange.”

  “I must, huh?” He had the notion that Carla’s current state might make for candid conversation. Then again, she wasn’t one to censor herself in the first place. But it was worth a try, and it might keep her distracted from the occasional shuffling sounds he was sure he heard behind the wall. “I know we’ve never really gotten along—actually, I don’t think we’ve ever talked much to begin with—but I hope we can at least be civil, now that you know my terrible secrets consist of some broken old hand-me-down rifles.” They weren’t broken, but hopefully he could make her remember them as such.

  “Sure. I rather like the Roccetti, actually. Your circle and mine are suited to one another.” She leaned forward, snatching a dry paintbrush from the table beside him, and waved it in the air like a conductor’s baton. After a moment she grew bored and tossed it back down. “I hope I didn’t offend you before, about your Farsi girl. I’m just quite curious to know.”

  “Like I said, we’re not involved.”

  “I wouldn’t report it or anything, if you were. It’s merely part of the contract for those who choose to live on the generosity of their betters. You just have to exercise discretion; these things generally get overlooked, unless she gets knocked up…”

  Suddenly, overwhelmingly, Emery wanted to hurt her. He dug his fingers into his thighs.

  “There you are, Carla,” came a voice from the foot of the stairs, saving him. “I got here about five minutes ago, and you and Sander weren’t anywhere to be found.”

  “Nonsense,” Carla said with a lazy wave of the hand. “You found me, see?”

  “I did.” Then, perhaps sensing the tension between them, Chelsea Engal added, “But I still don’t know my way around the house. Why don’t you run upstairs and grab me a glass of something? I think Vince was looking for you anyway.”

  Carla seemed torn between rebelling against her elder sister and visiting with the young Mr. Esser, but after a moment she rose. “I may take a minute.” They crossed paths as Chelsea came to take a seat; Carla wobbled, regained her balance. “This is a lovely house,” she announced to no one in particular. “Full of delightful things.” When she had passed the hidden door, Emery uttered a silent prayer of thanks.

  “May take a minute, indeed,” Chelsea echoed, smiling as she traced her sister’s unsteady steps. “Was she being intrusive?”

  He shrugged, struggling to relax. “Just breaking into closets, making insinuations about my sex life… you know, all the regular things someone does when they’re trying to make new friends.”

  Chelsea’s expression captured a precise halfway point between amusement and mortification. “Jehovah, I’m so sorry. I swear our mother did teach us manners—it worked on two of us, at least.”

  Emery smiled. “It’s fine. I’m just glad you got here when you did.”

  “Yes, sorry I’m so late, by the way. I meant to arrive with Sander, but my uncle kept me all evening.” She sounded genuinely abashed. “It also looks like I’m totally underdressed.”

  He noticed only then that she was wearing the standard white jumpsuit worn by nurses at Rittenhouse General; last time he’d seen her, she’d been Hanssen’s secretary. “Don’t worry about it. Have you seen what I’m wearing? Besides, you look great.” She did. She wasn’t as fashion-photograph beautiful as Carla—her nose and jaw were sharper, more like her twin brother’s, hinting at androgyny—but Emery had always found her rather pretty, and anyhow her friendlier demeanor made her a more welcome sight than her sister. “So, you’re nursing now? I feel like I haven’t seen you in months.”

  “I don’t think you have, since sometime in the fall. I’m a physician’s assistant, actually. Still working with my uncle, but it’s a big step. I’m starting to realize that I’ve set myself up for a hard road, trying to be a surgeon in a Farsi hospital suspicious of both Vorteil and women. From what I’ve seen with my uncle, and with the other women who work there, either handicap is difficult enough by itself.”

  “I’m confident you’ll find a way to make it work.” It was a strange thing to say; he knew that he knew almost nothing about her. She’d always just been Dr. Hansen’s secretary to him.

  Chelsea took the praise without pointing this out. “Thank you. I’m certainly going to keep trying.” She cast a glance around the makeshift studio. “What have you been up to, these past few months? You’re the subject of so much conversation, you must have some exciting goings-on.”

  “Oh, uh, less than you’d think. Painting, mostly.”

  He had unfortunately forgotten that his easel was positioned almost directly behind his present seat; moreover, his long-unused palette and brushes littered the end table beside him. “I see.” She eyed the half-blank canvas whose freshest layer was long since dry. “A new minimalist style, I suppose. Painting without paint.”

  “I’ve been doing most of my work at Juliet’s house, recently,” he blurted.

  “Juliet Spiros, who spends much of her time at my house, ‘composing’ with my brother. Sander and I do talk, you know.” She frowned, looking almost disappointed. “I’m not a snoop like my sister, Emery, but please don’t pretend I’m stupid; I work way too hard for that. Would you like to hear a fact I learned at the hospital a few months ago, one I happened to retain?”

  There was no malice in her voice—annoyance, at the most—and yet his hands were shaking. “What’s that?”

  “It’s been determined that when extinction occurred, most of its survivors were living in very remote, less-developed areas. The result of this was that, for all the medical knowledge we lost, we did retain the means of making some drugs used heavily in those areas, for diseases endemic to them.” Chelsea waited until he looked up from his white knuckles to meet her eyes. “Like the multidrug therapy used to treat leprosy. Dapsone, rifampicin, clofazimine.”

  Emery coughed.

  “Of course,” she continued casually, “the bacteria that cause leprosy mutate pretty rapidly. And since in Rittenhouse we focus on preventing it, no one really knows how well the treatment would work against aggressive new strains.”

  He was cornered. “How did you know?”

  “That bag was sitting in my uncle’s office for a few days before you picked it up. I peeked. That is, I peeked pretty thoroughly.”

  He wanted to crawl behind his chair. “I thought you weren’t a snoop,” he managed.

  Chelsea actually laughed a bit at that, nervously, but it was a laugh. “I said I wasn’t a snoop like my sister—I
’m not a sloppy one. I wasn’t spying on you intentionally; I didn’t even know the bag was for you until you walked out with it. Prying is surviving, in a setting where no one wants to teach you the things you need to know.”

  There was a moment of terrible silence.

  “I guess you must be overflowing with questions,” Emery said.

  “I am.”

  “I’m sure your uncle has told you what he thinks of me.”

  A half-smile there, amused or threatening? “Oh, my dear Uncle Arvid isn’t too fond of you.”

  She wasn’t giving him anything; he had to know whether she would tell, and whom. But then, if she planned to tell, what could he really do? “And what about you? Who do you think I am?”

  Chelsea cast a glance at her feet. “I’m caught between a lot of questions.” She paused, perhaps wondering whether to press her luck. “Just tell me this. The medicine—does it work? I mean, I don’t know if you’d have any way of knowing—”

  “It works,” he whispered.

  Chelsea slowly nodded, then quickly rose. “I’m going to go see what became of my sister and that drink. I’ll see you upstairs, Emery. Thanks for having me. And happy birthday.”

  He remained sitting there for a long time, trying to shake the feeling that the walls were closing in.